A Nny Christmas Carol
by EchidnaHazard
Summary: A parody off Dickens' A Christmas Carol.


A Nny Christmas Carol  
  
By Echidna-Hazard  
  
(A/N: Yes, this is quite obviously a spoof off of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, but I have attempted to add a bit of originality and spice to it, so that it's not a completely boring and/or educational clone. I've spent a lot of time and Carpal Tunnel on this piece of fluff. On to the disclaimer. Neither A Christmas Carol or JTHM and co.; Squee, Shmee, Mr. Fuck, Psycho-Doughboy, etc., NONE of them belong to me. Loki belongs to the Norse people, I suppose. All hail the Nordic. Scud is the intellectual property of Faker, and is used with permission. You must worship Faker, as well as the Nordic. Future is perhaps the only one who fully belongs to me, so don't worry much about him, either. He's modeled after a good friend-- DoRoc Sabah Nur. Finally, you must worship him. Now sit back and enjoy this lovely Christmas story. I demand it. If you like it, review. If you hate it, review. If you couldn't care less, why are you reading it?)  
  
It is a cold night. Snow is falling gently, the small flakes of freezing water sticking to the ground and accumulating as I make my way home. Some of them stick to my hair and clothes, but I make no move to wipe them away. Why should I care about cold? I can't feel anymore. I've made it that way.  
  
My name is Johnny C, and as I walk along this street of blinking lights and candy canes, a virtual winter wonderland, I'm fighting not to be sick all over the slush.  
  
Commercial crap, completely. Parents wasting money to appease children in the name of corporate greed. Christmas is no celebration; it's a nightmare.  
  
Always competing for the better present, just another way of showing off their wealth, just another group delusion. If love and truth and peace and joy to the world were given half as much thought as those stupid carols sing of, perhaps it would be a better place. Perhaps this quote-unquote 'holiday' would have some real meaning. But it's all just a ploy.  
  
And no, it's not because I got coal in my stocking. As a matter of fact, my life before I moved to number Seven-Seven-Seven is a blur, a more than half- forgotten past of some other existence. So I can't even remember if there was a little me sitting below a tree, surrounded by caring, loving friends and family and presents. Maybe that wasn't how it was, maybe I do hate this holiday because I got the short end of the stick. As I've said, I can't remember. It's irrelevant, anyhow.  
  
The whole idea of Christmas and giving is twisted into something so horrendous that I can't believe I'm the only one to recognize it for the monster that it is.  
  
The streets, decorated with tinsel and lights and holly, pass by quietly as I head home, watching the shoppers pass with bags. They're all bundled up against the extreme temperatures, but I'm wearing my normal black ensemble, with a backpack full of plastic explosives and knives.  
  
Why would they miss out on the numbness that slowly freezing to death brings?  
  
Soon the familiar sight of my street comes into view, and then my house, with its boarded up windows, broken down garage and snow-covered dirt plot.  
  
Reverend Meat, a talking burger boy thing that I met after returning from hell, pipes up as soon as I enter the house and head to the kitchen with my bags.  
  
"Did you have fun?"  
  
"No." I reply in a clipped tone, putting away eggs and various other foodstuffs.  
  
"Tell me you enjoyed the feeling, at least." he persists, in an annoying manner.  
  
"What feeling?" I mutter, walking into the living room and collapsing facedown on the couch that serves double-duty as a bed.  
  
I'm kind of hoping he won't answer, but he does anyway. "The feeling of joy! Love and brotherhood to one's fellow man!"  
  
"I'd just as soon kill myself. Fellow man, with these pigs?"  
  
"It's true." He insists, "Kinship and goodwill, my boy. Don't deny yourself this emotion."  
  
I yawn, showing plainly my disapproval. "No such thing as goodwill, as an emotion. Only the store."  
  
I turn away from him, feeling tired for some reason. It must've been all the exposure to the snow. Funny, I never considered that before. Maybe if I go lie down outside, I'll never wake up again.  
  
"Don't think like that." Scolds another voice, "You tried suicide, remember? It didn't make you happy."  
  
I acknowledge it silently, not questioning how the other voice is able to read my mind, and respond, "Just a thought."  
  
The clock chimes twelve almost before the words leave my mouth, and the onset of tiredness is far too much for me to bear now. I close my eyes and almost immediately fall asleep. Without my company to talk to, Reverend Meat and the unnamed thought are both quiet.  
  
I don't know how long it is I've slept, but I'm suddenly awoken by a crash. For a second my sleep-clogged mind tells me it's just one of the torture victims trying to get free, but a moment later I realize it's from this level.  
  
No use asking the Reverend who's in the house, he doesn't know any more than I do. I'll have to go check this out myself. Showing bravery that can only be found in fools, and homicidal maniacs like myself, I slowly creep down the hallway, ignoring the shadows cast by the moon outside, and head for the source of the noise.  
  
It can't be Mr. Samsa the cockroach, he's far too small to make that kind of noise. So it has to be something bigger. Squee, my neighbor, maybe? Though he's never come to my house before, at least not willingly. Maybe his little bear friend Shmee came. That rude fluff-ball is certainly not welcome in my house.  
  
I enter the dining room, and stare at the cloaked figure in the middle of it. It has the appearance of a sweeping phantom, and its back is turned to me. If anytime is good for a preemptive strike, it's now.  
  
Before I can make a move forward, however, the phantom turns its cowled head to me. "Johnny C." it rumbles in a strangely familiar voice.  
  
"Nailbunny?!" I stop dead and peer into the faceless cloth. A small rabbit face pushes its way out from the cowl, little nose sniffing.  
  
"Yes, it's me, Nny. We don't have much time. I've come from Beyond to give you a second chance, and a warning."  
  
"Huh? A chance for what?" I ask, still stunned that my little friend has returned to me.  
  
"Tonight you will be visited by three ghosts-"  
  
"Are you one of them?" I inquire.  
  
"Please stop asking questions, Nny. These ghosts will attempt to resurrect your soul about the Christmas spirit and make you feel more thankful for it." Nailbunny murmurs.  
  
"Not much luck of that." I reply, folding my arms, "Christmas is a symbol of greed and vanity."  
  
"I pray you change your mind before this night is over. The first ghost will visit you in less than half an hour. Goodbye, Johnny."  
  
Before my eyes, the cloaked specter fades and disappears, leaving me in an empty room to decide if I'm venturing into uncharted territories of insanity.  
  
"Meat," I say, as soon as I return to the living room. The little burger boy looks up at once.  
  
"Yes, Johnny?" he says attentively.  
  
"Ghosts don't exist, do they?"  
  
"...Uh. I don't think so." He allows, unsure.  
  
"Good." I sit back down on the couch and gaze at the clock on the wall. The hands move slowly, and I soon find myself unwarily nodding off. A noise brings me back to full awareness, the noise of something scratching along a surface. Quickly, my eyes locate the source of the noise--it's a little gray thing with alertly pricked ears and a tiny, blank face. It has small stubby arms and legs, and hollow eyes.  
  
It turns, somehow sensing my gaze, and holds up a chalkboard. Etched in neat little handwriting, with a small flower near the top, is the message:  
  
I AM THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS PAST.  
  
"-You're- a ghost?" I ask skeptically, standing. The little thing doesn't even come up to my kneecap. He looks up at me, not intimidated, then turns back to his chalkboard.  
  
YES, I AM.  
  
"Alright, you little thing--" I start, but he cuts me off by erasing the message and scribbling another.  
  
I AM SCUD.  
  
"Alright, Scud. Prove to me that you're a ghost." I challenge. This thing can't possibly be from the realm of the dead. It looks more like it should be in a Gothic child's cartoon.  
  
Instead of resorting to the chalkboard again, he points to the clock, then to himself, indicating he doesn't have much time, I suppose.  
  
"Well, what are you doing here? What do you hope to prove?" I ask, harshly.  
  
COME WITH ME.  
  
Before another word is out of my mouth, he leaps up and grabs my hand in one of his, the chalkboard clattering to the floor, and drags me with an amazing strength to the windowsill.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, wait a second!!" I cry out, alarmed, but it's too late. He lunges for the window and for the boards covering it, and I instinctively close my eyes. After half a minute and no pain, I open my eyes again. Scud still has a tight grip on my hand, only now we're flying through the air.  
  
"This has got to be a dream. No more exposing myself to sub-zero temperatures." I say, shakily.  
  
"Oh, this is no dream, Johnny." Scud speaks at last from up above; his voice is so soft and subdued I have to strain to hear him, "This isn't even a nightmare. Just the truth and nothing more, nor nothing less."  
  
"Why are you doing this?! How?!"  
  
He is mute again, concentrating with his empty gaze at the houses that pass below us. After a few more minutes of this, he swoops down like a hawk, still gripping my hand with a grasp like iron.  
  
We land gently on the snow-covered floor in front of a dilapidated building, showing its wear and tear quite plainly. The windows are all broken, cobwebs adorn their holes, and the wood is sagging and rotten. Scud hops up to the windowsill, his ears twitching, and he gazes inside to the blackness very intently. "Do you recognize this place?" he whispers in his soft little voice.  
  
"No." I growl, determined not to. I turn my face away from it, and fold my arms. Though I'm standing in ankle-deep snow, I suddenly come to the realization that I can't feel any of it. I'm not even cold.  
  
"Look again." Scud suggests, and the faint, tinkling sound of music tempts my ears. I turn my head, and the darkened window is now bathing the cold outside with a warm glow. Cheery occupants dance to the music inside, and against my will, I take a step closer.  
  
"Now you remember." Scud murmurs soothingly next to me.  
  
And I do, at least a little, I dimly recall this place, being invited to this party and accepting. But this was--  
  
"Before." Scud says, taking the word from my mind, "This was before you became what you are. True enough?"  
  
"Yes." I give voice to the words with a dry throat, gazing inside at the festivities. There, a lady dances, achingly beautiful in her white dress of splendor, and over there two boys share marshmallows by the fireplace. Crystal glasses are raised in toast and voices swell with the joy of living.  
  
"Can't they see us?" I wonder aloud.  
  
"They cannot... they are merely figments of your memories. We do not exist to them."  
  
But I hardly hear his words. My eyes are fixed upon a boy in the corner, a boy with raven black hair and squinty eyes.  
  
"God. Is that ME?!" I whisper, pointing to the far corner.  
  
"Yes." Scud says.  
  
The child can't be more than seven or eight years old, and yet there's no family accompanying him, nobody draws near. He just sits there, with a piece of bread, looking around at the bright lights and music with a small, brave smile. The lady in the dress approaches him, bends down and kisses his forehead. Words pass between them, but they are drowned out by the rest of the group and by the music.  
  
I turn back to the empty, dismal street for a few moments, looking miserably at the floor, and the music cuts short as though someone has pressed the mute button on a remote.  
  
"The memory is gone now." Scud said solemnly, "But that is not all I have to show you. Come."  
  
The darkened window mocks me, mocks my memories, and I look at Scud instead, unwilling to feel the pain renewed by a recollection that I can no longer bring back to me. He takes my hand again, floating in the air next to me, and gazes up with his empty stare.  
  
When next I look away, we are elsewhere. And this place I know at once, despite my mind being almost blank about everything related to here.  
  
"This is the State Orphanage." I exclaim at once.  
  
"Very good. You were dropped off here when you were two years old. They never found out who your parents were, or why they abandoned you, but this is where you grew up. This is where you spent most of your childhood, and many of your Christmases. Let's take a look."  
  
I follow him up to one of the windows and cup my hands to it, gazing inside. At first there is only blackness again, not even a glimmer of what once was. Slowly, like a television being turned on, an image appears. My past self, twelve or thirteen, is sitting at a desk, scratching something with a small knifelike object.  
  
"You were quite the artist. You're etching there." Scud tells me in his fading voice, "A lion, I think, into a black-page. It is unimportant. Watch."  
  
Obediently, I keep my face up against the glass. My past self keeps scratching the page, an expression of rapt concentration evident.  
  
The door opens, and now words come to me, faintly.  
  
"Well, if it isn't Noodle Boy. What's wrong, you skinny little bastard? Don't like to be outside?"  
  
Two large, unfriendly looking boys are standing in the doorway; they both look about fifteen-odd. One of them strides up to Johnny and snatches the picture away. He looks up, no longer able to ignore their taunts, and snaps, "Give that back, Aaron!"  
  
"Take it from me, Noodle-Dick!" The boy sneers, throwing it to the other bully. He catches it and laughs. Johnny stands, and a glimmer of anger is evident in his face now.  
  
"Do it." I whisper encouragingly, "Do it, DO IT."  
  
"Shh. Watch." Scud chides.  
  
Johnny has tears steaming down his face now, he's not used to being tested this much. "Give it!"  
  
The boy who is currently holding the black-and-silver etching turns it sideways and rips the cardboard page in half. I gaze, stunned, all I can do is watch now, feeling rage in my own heart.  
  
Johnny just stares, and the boy throws the pieces at him. He looks down at the floor for a few seconds, and when he looks up, his face is contorted in rage. He lunges for the boy and throws his hand forward, the one with the knife. Blood rushes up like a fountain, drenching his hand and soaking the implement, but still he brings it down, again and again, maniacal anger in his eyes.  
  
"And you don't remember this." Scud says to me, unfazed by the violence, even as dark blood splatters the window. He turns to look at me, and the images fade.  
  
"No." I maintain, still a bit stunned, "What happened next?"  
  
"You killed them both, and fled." Scud looks down at his fingerless hands, "You were never caught. Even back then, I suppose, you had divine protection. I have one more thing to show you."  
  
"This doesn't teach me anything about Christmas." I say bitterly, "Show it to someone else. I don't want to watch."  
  
"Just the one thing. And then I will take you home." Scud promises, his voice staying quiet and soft.  
  
After a few seconds, I turn back to look at him. "Alright. But make it quick."  
  
The orphanage fades as well, to be replaced with a large field. I can tell just by a glance that we've skipped forward about two years. The Johnny that is standing next to a tree is lankier, his hair a little longer; he looks almost like I do, not that many years in the future.  
  
He glances around as if waiting for something or someone, and his eyes are dark and haunted.  
  
"You didn't sleep much during this period of your life, either." Scud tells me, "Was it guilt?"  
  
I don't grace him with an answer, keeping my attention on the younger Johnny. He keeps looking around expectantly, and after a minute or two a girl approaches him. She has smooth, dark hair tied back in a long ponytail, and her eyes hold all the sparkle of twin sapphires. Johnny looks relieved, he walks up to her and embraces her.  
  
"What's going on here?" I demand of Scud, "I don't remember this bit either."  
  
"There's a reason for all your gaps, Johnny." Scud says grimly, "Just observe, it will become clear. That girl is Elizabeth, she was your girlfriend for a few months. Long enough for you to start trusting her."  
  
As he talks, the girl turns away from Johnny, whose face is composed into the look one wears when hearing that their loved ones have all died in a roaring inferno.  
  
"She's got a boyfriend. She's only just broken the news to you. She was cheating on you for the better part of three weeks, and you never knew. Now she's announcing that she is breaking up with you. You, needless to say, are crushed. Absolutely."  
  
"Wha--what? Cheating on me?" I stutter, "B-but how could I not remember..." My words die in my throat as the girl exits and Johnny is left alone. He doesn't look like he's dealing too well.  
  
"This is your fourteenth Christmas Eve, by the way." Scud adds, pointing.  
  
Johnny pulls out a handgun from his backpack and places it to the temple of his head, all in a casual, straightforward sort of way. My heart nearly stops right then.  
  
"No!! Stop him!!" I demand of Scud, panicked beyond belief, "That's MY life he's throwing away!"  
  
Scud weathers my demands calmly, and the report echoes in the distance. "Paramedics arrive soon enough to treat you. Miraculously, you survive. But due to the trauma, you don't recall anything up to that point, only your name, and pain of being used. Nothing else follows you. Oh, yes, vital statistics, how old you are and such, but emotional memories are all snuffed like candles, with only a few dying embers here and there. poof. Goodbye, old Johnny..."  
  
"Hello, new Johnny." I finish, slowly, "This is why."  
  
"For a little while the old you lingers on, you still paint, as your friend Nailbunny was able to tell you. But due to your injuries, sometimes you have trouble remembering, even things that happened after that fateful Eve. Don't you?"  
  
I nod slightly, still shocked by the revelation.  
  
"I promised I'd take you home now." Scud adds, "But this night is not over for you yet. You will have two more guests before the dawn."  
  
I open my mouth to reply, and suddenly a swift wind picks up, and the area grows dim. I look around, and I'm greeted with the familiar sight of my living room. After a second's pause, I conclude that it had to have been a dream. All of it. Otherwise I'm further off the deep end than I thought I was. I fight to remember anything of those memories in my own mind, but nothing comes. It might as well be a stranger's thoughts that I've seen.  
  
Slowly, I sink back against the couch and try to coax my mind back into some sort of restful sleep. It's been over a week since I've last slept, anyway, I need to slip in some now, or not at all. My eyes close for a few moments, but almost as soon as I do, another voice calls to me.  
  
"Johnny-y-y..."  
  
"Who're you?" I demand, sitting back up at once. I know, though, before the voice speaks again. Another hallucination.  
  
"I am Loki, the Ghost of Christmas Present." A large, lanky wolf, almost as big as a pony, steps out of the shadows, "Here to show you the error of your ways."  
  
"You can try." I tell him stubbornly, "So far, all you ghosts have done is dug my heels in deeper."  
  
"Your past was painful. But you do not live in the past. You live in the present." Loki responds, "A present which I will show you in proper perspective."  
  
He bends down into a relaxed stance, beckoning me to get onto him. Reluctantly, I stand and cross over to him, getting on his back. Loki takes off out the door almost at once, paws pounding against the sidewalk, and races up the street. Fortunately, I had a tight hold to begin with, and so I'm not thrown off.  
  
He slows down slightly as we reach the city square again, the same place where I made my feelings known earlier, and looks around, panting a little. I keep my eyes downcast, unwilling to look up at the tinsel and glowing lights.  
  
"I hate Christmas. And nothing you can do or say will change my mind." I growl, and almost instantly he breaks out into a trot again.  
  
"You think so?" he asks, and there's a twinge of malice in his voice. I don't grace it with an answer, and so he keeps on, his fur ruffling against the cold. Absently, my fingers catch and hold in his neck-fur, and I keep my eyes averted from the merry stores.  
  
After a few minutes we enter a bad part of the town, a part where homeless people abound. They don't look up at me, I guess they can't see either of us. They live in filth and squalor, and many of them look freezing.  
  
"And you, at least, have a house to go back to, miser. What do they have? A dingy alleyway or a bench, perhaps. Their children won't have the joy of Christmas like you could." The wolf rumbles under me, his claws clicking as he passes by the street, his own eyes glowing green.  
  
I am silent, wordless, but I'm not convinced, "So, it just proves," I argue after a moment, rallying, "that love and goodwill are overrated lies. That money is what you need to have Christmas."  
  
He trembles under me for a moment, then hisses, "Money, is it? Wealth, greediness and possession? Is that what Christmas has become to you?"  
  
Before I can reply, he takes off again, determination showing plainly, and after several minutes, stops outside a house I recognize. He trots up the driveway to number Seven-Seven-Nine and passes through the wall as though it's not even there.  
  
"This is Squee's house." I speak the plainly obvious, "I come here all the time."  
  
Loki doesn't answer, perhaps I've maddened him with my earlier speech. He noses open the door to Squee's room and enters. "Look around, you selfish little bugger." He utters, inclining his head. Sitting at the desk, Squee is playing a shaky rendition of Joy To The World on his recorder. Shmee is propped up next to the window, his blank-gaze fixed on his owner.  
  
"He's not bad." I allow, unsure of what Loki wants me to see. Squee hops down from the chair, clutching his sheet music and recorder, and then runs right through both of us to the door, and then outside, calling excitedly, "Mommy! Listen!"  
  
Loki turns and silently follows, but the answer, though muffled, is plain as a negative; Squee returns to the hallway with a sad little face on. He perks after a moment and runs to the study.  
  
"Daddy, do you want to hear...?"  
  
"No, I don't. I'm very busy. Go away, little boy."  
  
Squee trots back out, looking forlorn, and re-enters his room. Loki stands mutely in the doorway, watching for a moment more.  
  
"I guess you'll have to hear me again, Shmee. Huh? Are you sure you're not getting tired of it?" Squee asks the little teddy, sitting down next to him on the floor.  
  
"So. Now you think money is what it takes to have Christmas? That love isn't a factor?" Loki asks.  
  
I glance back at Squee for a moment, still trying, and respond, "His parents hate him year-round. And that Scud person only had three tries, it's almost over for you."  
  
"Yes. I suppose you're right." Loki agrees, "One final try, then."  
  
He walks back out via the wall once more, and takes off down the street at an easy pace, his eyes glinting, "Little Todd is quite lucky to have you. He could have no-one."  
  
I twitch for a moment, "I don't think he likes me much."  
  
"He might not show it." The Ghost murmurs, "Some people are not good at showing their gratitude."  
  
Loki makes his way up a different street and enters another house, the front door proving no obstacle.  
  
"This is Devi's house!!" I say suddenly, feeling my palms begin to sweat almost at once.  
  
"Yes." The wolf agrees, glancing in the kitchen, "She's baking cookies. She'll spend Christmas alone, inside, this year. Half-afraid of you."  
  
I fold my arms stubbornly, "I tried to apologize. She didn't accept."  
  
"Would any sane person?" He shoots back, leaving me to wonder for a few precious seconds where my knives went, "But she is lonely, too...it would not be too late to remedy that."  
  
"Like she'd want to spend any time with me." I mutter.  
  
The wolf heads back to the living room, where Devi is sitting, seemingly unaware of us, and passes back through the door. He stops in the middle of the street.  
  
"You'd be surprised." He tells me, and then he lunges. I hadn't had time to get a good grip, so I find myself tumbling hard to the tarmac as the shaggy beast disappears into the shadows. Standing up and rubbing my sore tailbone, I take another look around. Funny, it should be near dawn soon, but it's getting darker.  
  
A horse neighs behind me, and I'm quick to turn. The midnight-black equine is standing a few feet back, and atop it is a skeleton in a dark cloak, with a scythe clutched in one bony hand and the reins in the other. He dismounts while I'm still gazing mutely, and strides up to me, easily two feet taller. His eyes are small white circles in hollow holes, and his mouth is a vicious, toothy grin.  
  
"You're Future?" I wonder aloud, more curious than scared.  
  
"That I am, little one." The skeleton speaks in a deep voice, letting go of the reins. The horse trots off into the darkness after the wolf, and Future looks down at me reproachfully, his cloak trailing on the ground, the clasp at his sternum gleaming gold.  
  
"Walk with me, child." He booms, taking my shoulder in his free hand and starting down the street. I walk alongside obediently, admiring his scythe. It's huge, and the blade is sharpened to a killing edge. The light bounces off it and it glitters like a dazzling star, beautiful and deadly.  
  
He catches me looking and the grin grows a fraction wider, "Pretty, isn't it...? Though not in the spirit of Christmas."  
  
"No." I agree quietly, "But I'm not, either."  
  
"You think not, just wait." He tells me grimly. He raises his hand off my shoulder to point forwards, "That is your abode. Am I correct?"  
  
I follow his gesture with my eyes and nod, stepping up my pace a little. Graffiti and damage all over greets me, and for a second I'm shocked silent.  
  
"What -happened-?!" I demand, feeling violated, "How'd they get away with...?"  
  
"Things are not as they were." Future says, "The families of your past victims getting revenge, I suppose. And you were in no position to stop them from doing it."  
  
"What do you mean?" I whisper, "Where am I?"  
  
"Not yet." He says irritably, "First we shall check up on your neighbor."  
  
To my dismay, he walks right past Squee's house, and keeps going up the road.  
  
"But Squee lives back there!" I cry, jogging to keep up, "Did he move house?"  
  
Future says nothing, he keeps walking, the scythe swaying back and forth. I feel razor-edged concern well up inside and follow in equal silence. He stops outside a big building and steps inside, pushing the door open for me. My boots clank on tile floors, and the place has a sterile feeling to it. Fluorescent lights lance up reflected from the floor to my eyes, almost blinding, and I fight to keep up with the speedy ghost.  
  
He stops outside a different door and motions to me to open it. Hesitantly I reach out for the knob and enter. There, paler than the sheets which surround him, is Squee, lying in a hospital bed. A mass of machines are next to him, showing jagged emerald and ruby lines. Shmee is tucked into the bed next to him, now glaring accusingly at me.  
  
"Squee!!" I howl, truly horrified, "What happened to him!? Who did this?!"  
  
"Nobody 'did it', especially. It was a series of events that turned tragic. He is comatose. Has been for a week." Future exits the room, but I stay, the concern changing into worry, hacking deep into my gut.  
  
"Squee." I whisper, looking at his little face, at the few strands of ebon hair that poke out from the bandages, and I wonder what events Future spoke of. Quickly, I scurry out behind him, leaving the door open, and catch up to the robed skeleton a few minutes later. He's headed off somewhere else, but it's plain he was waiting for me.  
  
"With every day he stays under, the odds of him waking decrease." Future murmurs.  
  
"Tell me what it was. I need to know how to prevent this." I plead, desperation in my voice.  
  
The ghost keeps walking, then suddenly turns to look at me as the clock chimes. His eyes glint for a moment, and my eyes alight on his robes. There's something moving under them, and as I watch he throws it wide open, revealing two little creatures I thought I'd never see moving again.  
  
"Mr. Fuck and Psycho-Doughboy!" I exclaim, "What are you doing here--??"  
  
"They symbolize the two emotions you embody towards Christmas. Hatred and Jealousy, Nny, hatred because as you hate all corrupted life, you hate this holiday that you sense has slighted you. Jealousy because you are jealous of all the unblemished holidays that others have enjoyed, while you suffered." Future explains.  
  
Mr. Fuck grins at me, his face contorted into malice. "What do you need Christmas for, huh? You have us, you have your bloodied weapons, you have your hate. Hate towards the world!"  
  
I back away, and Psycho-Doughboy moves forward as well.  
  
"What right was it of the others to enjoy what you couldn't have? Why did even your suicide effort fail, hmm? Can this holiday grant you ANYTHING you want?" he questions.  
  
"Get away from me! Get away!!" Panicked beyond rational thought, I turn and run, and I suddenly stumble against a rock of some sort. The ground comes up to meet me, dazing me for a second. When I can see straight again, I look around, and the dismal sight of a graveyard meets me. I roll over onto my back. Future, flanked by the two Doughboys, approaches.  
  
"You asked what events transpired." Future speaks in a matter-of-fact voice, "I shall tell you. Squee was outside, walking home from his yearly Christmas Band Festival--which, I might add, his parents did not attend, and so he didn't pay as much attention as he would have otherwise to the world around him. He stepped out onto the road without looking, and as it happened, a truck was approaching the other way."  
  
"No..." I murmur, sickened, "He was...but where was I?"  
  
"You tried to save him." Mr. Fuck chimes in, "Like the dolt you are, you leapt for him as the driver started to brake. The slush was bad, so he couldn't stop. Squee relied on you, and guess what?"  
  
"You failed! You were too late. You're always too late, Nny." Psycho- Doughboy sneers, finishing the other's sentence, "So not only did he get pulped, but so did you!! You pathetic, selfless LOSER!"  
  
I stand shakily, and try to step back, and my foot comes down on nothing. I flail my hands to keep my balance, and whip around. The gaping hole behind me yawns like a monster's maw. Small hands push at my back, and already off- kilter, I plummet into the six-foot hole, slamming down onto a wooden box. I glance up at the rectangle of light, and the two Doughboys glower down, silhouetted next to Future.  
  
The box, which I now realize is a coffin, begins to slide open, pushing me to the side. I gaze down into it for a few seconds, viewing my corpse for the first time. A smear of blood is evident on his forehead, and as I watch, his eyes flick open, glowing red pinpricks that take in my face, and a mouth that forms into a twisted smile. I stagger to my feet, alarmed. He sits up, and then stands, mirroring my action. He smiles, and I can see maggots squirming in his mouth, which now looks more like a gaping wound.  
  
"No, no, no!" I cry as he lunges for me and closes cold hands around my throat.  
  
"You didn't believe. you didn't have spirit in you. if you had gone to Squee's concert he wouldn't be dying and you wouldn't be DEAD! But instead of going, you stayed inside and moaned about the futility of Christmas, then -failed- to save him! You're no good to anyone! You disgust me, Nny!!" he shrieks in a twisted variation of my own voice. I emit a choked gasp, trying to pry his hands away from my throat.  
  
"Nny!" Future calls from above.  
  
"Nny!" Mr. Fuck and Psycho-Doughboy add, "Nny!!"  
  
I gaze helplessly into the burning eyes of my future self, and he screams, "Nny!!"  
  
"I-I'll change, I'll change!" I screech in return, "No--!! I'll change, I swear!"  
  
"Nny! Wake up!"  
  
I jerk away from the voice, and the hands are gone, suddenly it's only me, flailing against myself, lying on the couch in the darkness. I tumble to the ground with a thump.  
  
"Reverend Meat?" I wonder aloud, my heart beating frantically.  
  
"I thought it best to wake you." he responds calmly, "You didn't seem very well. Trying to strangle yourself and all." Then, eagerly, "How did it feel, the terror? Was it cold and numbing, or--?"  
  
"Not right now." I cut him off tiredly, still thinking hard back to that. It seemed so real. Could it possibly have been just a dream? "Nobody came in here, did they?" I ask him, trying to slow down my rapidly pumping heart, which was still certain I was going to die.  
  
"Not that I saw." He confirms, "C'mon, Nny, how did it feel?"  
  
"It wasn't pleasant." I inform him, moving over to the curtains and throwing them open. Bright light filters through the slats on the boarded up window, and then I glance to the clock.  
  
"Seven... It's seven. I still have time to change it all." I say softly, taking a deep, relieved breath, "Squee, and Devi..."  
  
"Change what? Nny, are you okay?" Reverend Meat inquires, "You seem a little funny."  
  
"Never better." I retort, moving over to my desk and taking a few minutes to write something down. I fold it up and take it with me, rushing to the door. Pausing only to grab a long black coat and slip it on, I exit and hop into my car.  
  
The first place I head to is Devi's, stepping up to the door and dropping the note. Then I hurry back down and leap into the car again, speeding off down the road. I've got plenty of time to pick up some goods and get them home, and an hour or so to prepare. I keep checking the clock, worriedly. The recital starts at twelve, and I don't want to be late.  
  
As it is, it's twelve-twenty by the time I'm ready to leave the house, but before I do, Meat calls after me, "What's the meaning of all this?"  
  
I respond, wearily, "I'll have time to explain it to you later."  
  
I shut the door and lock it, then run along the sidewalk, taking glances at my watch every now and again. the school comes into sight and I dash inside, ducking past Squee's teacher and slipping into the auditorium. I stand next to the door, watching the stage intently. The band, including Squee himself, are playing a squeaky rendition of Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer, and he hasn't noticed me yet. The song winds to a conclusion a few minutes later, and Squee gets up out of his chair, which scrapes along the floor. He squints in the bright lights and looks around for a face he recognizes.  
  
Sensing my cue, I wave at him. His eyes widen a bit, and he squeaks into the microphone. Shakily, he looks down at the sheet music, places his recorder in his mouth, and sets his fingers. He hits every note a little off, and some quite haltingly. But it's the best rendition of Joy To The World that I've ever heard, mostly because it's Squee playing it.  
  
When he's done, there is deadly silence all around the auditorium. Not one snot-nosed brat moves to applaud, and I walk forward quite calmly and whack one or two of them in the head, then whistle and cheer enthusiastically. The rest of the group, perhaps intimidated, follow my lead, clapping for Squee.  
  
A small smile breaks out on his face like a hesitant sunrise, he takes a stiff bow and then walks offstage. I pale, remembering what happened in the dream, and jog back outside down the hallway. Squee's standing outside on the sidewalk, unzipping his backpack and withdrawing Shmee from it.  
  
"Hey!" I call, and Squee looks up.  
  
"Um. Hi." He says, a little timidly, "Why did you come here?"  
  
"Why?" I repeat the question, "Well, I came to hear you play, little Squee. You knocked them dead, huh? I wanted to walk you home, too. Dangerous streets and all."  
  
He seems unsure, suspicious, but agrees with a small nod after a moment, and begins to walk home alongside me.  
  
"Squee, ah... I know I haven't been the best neighbor." I say, a little reluctant to bring it up, "And I wanted to apologize for probably traumatizing your childhood."  
  
"It's okay." He replies, wistfully. A moment passes, "Are you going to put milk out for Santa?"  
  
"I might. Do you want to come over to my house, maybe, for a snack or something?" I ask.  
  
He takes a little longer to respond this time, "Well... I guess it'd be okay. Can Shmee come?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
After a little while, and after crossing a few streets, I walk up my driveway, Squee's little hand in my own. I reach out and unlock the door, easing it open, and usher him inside.  
  
Following, I flick the lightswitch on. In the corner, a Christmas tree decorated with lights glows softly, and there are snacks and drinks spread out on a nearby table.  
  
"I, uh, forgot to mention that I was holding a little Xmas party." I add, grinning widely, "And you're invited."  
  
He smiles back at me, clutching Shmee, and then looks back at the tree, glancing down beneath it. His face falls slightly.  
  
"Oh, right, well. No presents, yes." I admit, feeling like I've failed somehow, "Not enough money for them as well as the tree and the food and whatnot. But we can still have fun..." The doorbell rings almost before the words leave my mouth, and I hesitantly approach, easing it open. Devi stands there, braced to attack or flee.  
  
"Devi!! You came." My tone sounds like one informed of suddenly being a billionaire, "Oh, please, come in."  
  
She steps inside, her face composed into a neutral expression, and then takes in the festive ornaments. "I got your message. Wow, Nny. ...Ah, this is very nice." She allows, nervously.  
  
"Thank you." I say, delightedly, sitting back down on the couch, "...Devi, uh...Thanks so much for coming." I can't seem to find the words to express what I want to say, 'thanks' seems so inadequate.  
  
"No problem, I guess." She responds, remaining near the door.  
  
Squee sits next to the tree with Shmee in hand, gazing up raptly at it. Movement at the corner of my eye makes me turn to look at the doorway leading to the dining room, where Mr. Fuck and Psycho-Doughboy are standing, looking guiltily at the floor. Not bothering to question how they came to be there, or even came to be sentient again, I stand and approach them.  
  
They both look up, terrified, fearing retribution for shoving me into the grave, I suppose--assuming that it wasn't a dream, but I'm quick to reassure them, "Come in. The more the merrier."  
  
Slowly, perhaps suspecting a cruel joke, they enter, nod at Devi and Squee, and then take up positions near the table of food meekly. The former simply blinks, recognizing them, and the latter's eyes bug out slightly, but he makes no comment.  
  
"Well, this is nice, Nny, what prompted the change?" The Reverend speaks up from the upturned box in the opposite corner.  
  
I shrug, not wanting to let him in on how much a dream affected me, when another knock at the door sounds. Devi answers it, and I perk up curiously. I didn't invite anyone else.  
  
Sitting outside on the doorstep is a bundle of presents. Devi moves aside as I stride forward, confusion showing on my face. There are gifts here for her, for Squee and Shmee, the Doughboys, even for Meat. Faintly, the gentle sound of bells comes to me. Sleigh-bells...?  
  
"No. Nooo way. Ghosts, time travel, I can accept." I utter, stunned, "But Santa..."  
  
"Santa came!!" Squee cries, happily, and I fall silent, the last few ramparts of my cynicism taking another hit.  
  
"Santa?" Mr. Fuck and Psycho-Doughboy both exclaim in unison, "Impossible!"  
  
"NOW who's not in the spirit of things?" I ask smugly, returning to the couch.  
  
They exchange looks for a moment, then glance back at me, "You staged this somehow, didn't you?" Fuck demands.  
  
"Not me." I shake my head, and they can hear the ring of truth in my voice, "Guess it's just one of those things, hmm?"  
  
I lean back against the couch, surrounded by friends, and close my eyes for a moment. Almost inaudibly, I whisper, "Thanks for that second chance, Nailbunny." 


End file.
